Dreamer
by OutspokenMind
Summary: Reality is a funny word. I don't know what it means anymore. Nothing in my world, any world, seems certain. But, there is one thing that I'm absolutely certain of. Angel's exist. What happens when everything you thought you knew, you've never really known at all... Evangeline Gray must confront her darkest fears to find her way back to the light.


** E**

'She hasn't been responding too well to her treatment I'm afraid, Mrs Gray.'

'I don't understand, she was making so much progress, they told us, they specifically said… progress.'

'The episodes are getting worse, more resilient. Sometimes she's gone for hours at a time.'

'Is there anything we can do, anything at all?'

'Nothing more than you already are Mrs Gray.'

'There must be something, someone, a specialist maybe?'

'We've referred her to every specialist we have access to. It's always the same diagnosis: Schizotypal Personality Disorder. Advanced. Established with fluctuating intensity…'

'I understand the analysis Doctor.'

'I know.'

'It's been difficult.'

'I know.'

'Can we see her, now?'

'You can try.'

Evangeline Gray had been a patient at the Massachusetts Institute of Psychological Disorders for three years, six months and thirteen days. In three years, six months and thirteen days, absolutely nothing had changed. Every day was exactly the same. Each morning just as unwelcoming and dim as the next. Each night just as cold and lifeless.

The room that was meant to be her home was barely bigger than a cupboard. It had a high ceiling with walls of unblemished, white paint and a greying linoleum floor, rubbery, just in case. There was one window that minimally lit the space, situated just too high to look out of. A steel-sided door with a tiny plastic grate was on the wall opposite the window, a daily post for ogling doctors and disapproving nurses. In the left hand corner stood a small, steel-framed bed, clothed in regulation white sheets; one pillow, no blanket. Apart from that, the only other items in the room were a flickering wall lamp and a grey, plastic-covered chair in the near right hand corner; for visitors, if you got any.

Most days Evangeline just sat. Right in the middle of her bed, knees hugged to her chest, eyes glazed, thinking. If she was feeling especially adventurous she would sit in the corner on the floor and sing. Well, hum. Singing was strictly forbidden. It upset the other patients. She liked to sing; she used to do it all the time. Before.

Elizabeth Gray peered sadly through the small grate, watching her daughter sit quietly, as she always did, every time she came to visit. She kept telling herself that the next time, her daughter would look up and smile that bright, happy grin that used to play across her face so often when she was younger. But each time she came, it was the same old story. Her husband had given up hope long ago. He had dealt with the pain. But not Elizabeth. One day it would happen. It had to.

'Shall I go in?'

'If that's what you'd like Mrs Gray.'

'Are you sure we shouldn't wait a while, until she's… stopped.'

'Stopped what, Mrs Gray?'

'That. Sitting there, like that.'

'I don't think that's very realistic; you know how it is.'

'I know.'

'After you, Mrs Gray.'

She gingerly pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the room, hovering in the doorway for a moment to take in the always-chilling atmosphere. Words catching in her throat, she turned to Doctor Lucifer for help. He nodded and paced toward the bed, kneeling to eye level.

'Evangeline? Your mother is here to see you. Would you like to say hello?' There was no movement.

'Darling?' Mrs Gray swallowed, 'darling, it's me.' Her daughter continued to stare into the distance, her face unmoving, her eyes unseeing. Doctor Lucifer looked up and smiled sympathetically, standing to check his clipboard.

'She hasn't taken her medication yet, she may be a little more responsive afterwards.' Mrs Gray nodded silently and went to join her daughter on the bed. She sat down slowly, perched on the edge and reached out to take her hand. Evangeline let it fall limply into her mother's, not restraining, not responding.

'Darling?' She paused for a second and turned to Doctor Lucifer.

'I don't want to wait,' she spoke in a low tone. 'I can't wait until she's had her medication. I need to speak to you.'  
'Go ahead.'  
'Alone.'  
'Alone?'  
'Alone.'

What seemed like an eternity of glaring white paint and humming mercury lights later, she was sitting in a daunting leather armchair; moss, to match the carpet, in Doctor Lucifer's office. She opened her mouth. She closed it. She opened it again. Nothing came out. The doctor was staring at her. He had this manner that was so cold, so inhuman. She couldn't understand it. He opened Evangeline's file, once again, on the surface of the deep mahogany desk and spread the contents out in a very obsessive compulsive manner.  
'I think it's depleting.' Elizabeth Gray's eyes snapped up.  
'What?'  
'I think it's depleting.'  
'I heard what you said. What are you referring to?'

'Her mental health, Mrs Gray, is depleting.'

'The progress…'

'We couldn't tell you until we were certain.'

'She's the same. Exactly the same. Her condition hasn't changed in... months.' Doctor Lucifer clicked his tongue.  
'The change is not obvious, not physically. To the observer's eye, Patient 164...'  
'Evangeline.'  
'Evangeline. She's averagely un-responsive and docile. But mentally, her condition is worsening. I've spoken to her. Several of my colleagues have spoken to her. The delusions are becoming more frequent, more grandiose.'

'I don't believe it. How have you spoken to her? She barely says a word. She barely breathes.' The doctor cleared his throat in a short manner.

'There are times of the day when Evangeline is certainly more… vocal. Outside visiting hours. After medication. During the night. I was going to talk to you about our decision.'

'What do you mean, decision?' Elizabeth Gray's stress levels were rising rather quickly. Doctor Lucifer leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together, narrowing his eyes as if the words were organising themselves in his head.

'After very careful consideration, my colleagues and I have decided to increase Evangeline's medication, and to increase her level of treatment.'

'I don't understand.' He rested his elbows on the desk and stared intently at Mrs Gray.

'We're going to increase her psychiatry sessions; try a different approach. We need to isolate her from the other patients.'

'That's absurd.' Elizabeth Gray uttered angrily, her jaw clenched in distress. 'That's completely absurd.'

'I know this is difficult Mrs Gray.'

'I don't think you do know.'

The doctor stood, breathing out heavily. He walked over to the only window in the room. It looked out onto a bare garden that imitated scrubland; a few patients dotted the lawn, seated on chairs, covered in white blankets. He breathed out again.

'Evangeline has been with us for a very long time, Mrs Gray. There has been little improvement; and now that her condition is worsening, alternative methods need to be taken. This is all for her sake; for her recovery. It will be difficult, for all involved, of course. And it may be upsetting. I need to know that you still support Evangeline and her case.' She shook her head, shocked by what she was hearing.

'Of course I still support her. She's my daughter, Doctor. She's still my daughter.' He turned to her and smiled briefly.

'Good.'

'I wanted to talk to you, earlier, because I was going to suggest that I could care for her better at home.' Doctor Lucifer looked at her for a moment.

'You know that isn't possible. I could never allow that.'

'Well I know that now. I can't believe she's getting worse…'

'These new psychiatry sessions, I really think they will make a difference. They're an innovative option for us, but I've heard they produce great results. We have a new specialist coming in. She's brilliant. Apparently, she likes to involve the family. It helps to distinguish normality. Is that something you'd like to do?'

'Yes. Of course. Yes. Anything that might help.'

'And your husband?' Mrs Gray looked at the floor.

'I don't think so.'

'Maybe you could ask him.'

'I don't think so.'

'Very well. I'll be in contact about the sessions, Mrs Gray, but they will certainly begin after we have settled Evangeline into her new routine.'

'That's probably best.'

'Indeed.'

Doctor Lucifer paced back to his desk and began to slide the papers back into the file, one by one.

'Doctor?'

'Is there anything else, Mrs Gray?' she swallowed.

'Can I see her?'

'Who?'

'Evangeline. Can I see her again?'

'I'm afraid that isn't possible. It's dinnertime.'

'Just briefly. Please?'

'I'm sorry, Mrs Gray, I just can't allow it.' He gave a small smile, and shifted robotically to replace the file in a cold, metal cabinet next to his desk.

'Okay.'

'Will that be all, Mrs Gray?'

'Yes. That will be all.'

She sat quietly, listening to the distant sounds of shouting and struggle and silence. She never did that anymore; shout. Well, much. It never made a difference. They always knew best, even if it wasn't best. When she first arrived, she would scream for hours and hours and hours. She would cry, and her face would be hot and red, and her palms would be raw and bloody from clenching her fists in fury. It felt as though her lungs would burst. Her throat was on fire; like she would never speak again. But she always did; speak, that is. Countless days would be spent on her stomach, face pressed against the floor, begging through the crack underneath her cell door for them to let her go free. They never did. And in her sessions, the doctors and nurses would look at her with sad eyes, as she grovelled to return home, where her mother would hug her and admit their mistake. It never happened.

She used to make a fuss in the living room; the other patients would respond and make a fuss too. There would be so much noise. She kicked and bit and struggled as she was dragged away with disappointed tones and stern faces. She had been told before that she had to cooperate; that was how she was going to recover. But she didn't want to. She wasn't sick. They were crazy. The people here were crazy. Everyone. The patients, the doctors, the therapists, the psychologists; everyone. They just didn't understand that she wasn't sick. Isn't sick.

She heard what they said about her. They whispered outside her door at night. They whispered by her bed with clipboards and charts, when they thought she was sleeping. And they whispered even when she was there; like she was a statue with no brains or feelings. They thought she was delusional; that she made things up in her head. They called it a 'coping mechanism'. They asked her about it and she told them. She told them they weren't delusions. She wasn't sure what they were. But they were as real as she was.

Her own family had abandoned her. They used to visit; they would bring her presents, which would be confiscated to prevent disruption. In the end, she didn't feel as though they were her family anymore at all. They spoke to her like she was an invalid. They did not see her. They observed her. Just like the others. And they trickled away, one by one, until her mother was the only one left. But she might as well have gone too. She didn't care. She pretended to. It was her duty. It was all a show.

It had been a long time indeed, since all this had happened. Since she had learned her lesson. Since she had realised that there was no escape. She no longer remembered things. She no longer had memories. The pictures in her head were blurred, like one with poor eyesight who has misplaced their glasses. She no longer remembered the names of those she once knew. She no longer remembered whether there existed a father and siblings. She no longer remembered who she had been before and what she had hoped for and yearned for and had. It all seemed so far away. This was all a bad dream; a dream that had been going on far too long. She pinched herself. She closed her eyes and she pinched herself. If she could only wake up she would be happy again. She could go back to her real home. And she would be happy.

There was a crunch as the heavy bolts on the door were pulled back. A nurse entered briskly, grabbing her arm and flinging her up against the wall, as though she was a rag doll. She pressed her fingers against her neck and scribbled some numbers down on her clipboard. Then she reached into her breast pocket and produced three brightly coloured pills; ironically, the only things that had any character in the entire, stone prison, they resided in.

'Open your mouth,' she barked. She stared at the nurse blankly. The nurse flared her nostrils. 'Open your mouth, Evangeline.' There was a pause and Evangeline obeyed. The medicine was stuffed into her mouth and knocked back, before she could resist further.

'Are you going to help us today?' The nurse asked, ticking some boxes on her chart. 'We need your help today; the new psychologist is coming in. Do you remember? She's going to make you better.' Evangeline looked over her head. The nurse sighed. 'Your mother's here. She's very excited to see you.' Evangeline sat down, crossed her legs and rested her face on the floor. She listened as the nurse paced away, muttering to herself. The door slammed and it was quiet again.

It was dark. There were no windows in her new room. It was more of a padded cell, without furniture. She had been moved here some time ago. They had told her she'd like it. She didn't. They'd told her it was going to make her better. She wasn't sick. She had been isolated.

A group of people she'd never seen before had burst into her room one night and brought her here. She didn't know where it was, but it wasn't in her old wing. It was still in the building; the walk had been long and distressing. There were lots of stairs. What seemed liked hundreds of flights, twisting and turning, cold and patent beneath her bare feet. She was high up. The air in the cell had more of a chill. Sometimes, she could see her breath. It filtered slowly from her pale, cracked lips, forming small clouds; a reminder of her wintry surroundings and her discomfort. There were no longer sounds of her neighbouring inhabitants banging on the walls, scratching at the holes in the plaster, or sobbing into the night. All she could hear was distant; occasional footsteps, creaking hinges. Sometimes, screams from afar.

They had been preparing her for the arrival of the psychiatrist for days now. At least, she thought it was days. It could have been longer. She was told every day. The moments had been counted down. A lot of that time, she had felt ill from the increased dosage of her yellow pills. She didn't know what their purpose was. She had felt tired and unable to move. Her head had been dizzy. She wasn't permitted to take part in any activities; only sleep and medication. She had barely had the strength to sit; to support her frail figure and thinning skin. Now the day had come.

She wondered what the therapist would ask her. Not that it made any difference. There had been so many specialists. Their faces had merged together, the sessions forgotten almost immediately after. They had been no help. At one time, she had pondered whether they were her means of escape. They weren't. It was a wonder they even tried anymore. She barely spoke. She gave them nothing. Eventually, she had found that she could no longer form words. Talking was a privilege she had long since denied herself. Not purposely. It had just happened. In her mind, she still worked, like a clockwork toy that had been unwound for too long; images and thoughts and sentences still played together. But from the outside, she imagined, she seemed like a hollow shell; blank and lifeless. It angered them. She thought that it must. No matter.

The bolts on the door crunched again. The doctor entered; the one without a soul. He was tall. His eyes always glowed from his shadowed face, black and piercing. He was the devil, and he had no soul. Evangeline did not take her face from the padded floor. And she did not open her eyelids. She knew. She could sense him. His voice was sharp, but soft. 'She's here.'

She was escorted down the hall by a nurse who was gripping the top of her arm so tightly, that the skin had turned blue. The doctor never touched her. He walked ahead, pacing slowly, his footsteps echoing. They climbed a flight of stairs that took them even higher; she could hear the wind whistling through the cracks in the wall. It was deadly silent. There were not even any fluorescent lights flickering or humming in anguish. They came to a wooden door.

Inside, there were two women. One was sitting nervously in a low chair by the door. It was her mother. The other, was terrifying. She was blonde and hard-faced, wearing a crisp grey suit, with eyes to match. She stood by the desk; one of the only pieces of furniture in the room. There were some sheets of white paper laid out on the table top, covered in unidentifiable notes; and large photographs, on glossy card.

Evangeline was seated on a high-backed chair in front of the desk, with a stiff headrest and padded arms. Her mother came to join her on an identical chair, placed a foot or so away. She looked worried. The nurse left the room, but the doctor stayed. He stood in a shadowy corner behind the terrifying woman, who could only be the long-awaited psychiatrist. The woman observed her intently for a few moments, before she sat down and observed for a few moments more. Evangeline stared past her.

'Good morning. My name is Doctor Hume. I'm going to be taking these sessions with you for the next few weeks; I'm a psychiatrist. And you are?' She paused for only a second to see if Evangeline would respond, before briefly glancing at the piece of paper in front of her. 'Evangeline Rosaleen Gray, 17, born April 24th. Originating from Alaska. Parents, Erik and Elizabeth Gray. Two siblings, younger, Edward and Eden Gray. Five feet, eight inches tall, 112lbs, dark brown hair, grey eyes. No piercings. No tattoos. No previous illness and no childhood trauma.' She smiled, coldly. 'That's correct.' Elizabeth Gray nodded nervously. Doctor Hume ignored her. 'Now we've introduced ourselves, shall we proceed with the session? Yes? Good.' Evangeline said nothing.

'She doesn't talk very much,' Mrs Gray added.

'She will.' Doctor Hume smiled once again. She gestured to the photographs on her left, placed neatly in a grid. There were nine people depicted; Evangeline did not know who any of them were. They all looked like wax figures, or dolls. Unreal. Unimportant. 'Do you recognize these individuals, Evangeline? You've met them all before.' Evangeline looked blankly at the wall.

'She doesn't usually listen to instructions,' Mrs Gray spoke. Doctor Hume ignored her, again. She pointed to a man in the centre.

'This is your father,' she helped. 'This,' she tapped the photograph next to it, 'is your sister.' Evangeline kept perfectly still. 'Do you know this boy?' Doctor Hume asked again. 'Doctor Lucifer tells me he lives in the room next door to the one you used to live in. Is he your friend?' She waved her hand over a picture of a sandy-haired boy with hollow cheeks. Evangeline didn't understand what she was meant to say. Doctor Hume pursed her lips, careful not to offer impatience on her face.

'Evangeline, do you know who the woman sitting beside you is?' Evangeline shifted her gaze to the psychiatrist. She blinked and looked away. There was silence.

'My mother,' she said, very quietly. Elizabeth Gray swivelled in her chair, staring at her daughter with wide eyes.

'What did you say?' she whispered. Doctor Hume held up her hand.

'Very good. She's your mother because she looks just like you, can you see? She cares about you very much. Can you remember all the times she's come to visit you here?' Evangeline looked out the window.

'She's not my real mother.'

Doctor Lucifer rubbed his temple, seemingly forgotten in the corner. Mrs Gray looked from her daughter, to Doctor Hume and back again; her face was pale. Doctor Hume held up her hand again, narrowing her eyes.

'What do you mean, Evangeline?'

'She's not my real mother.'

'Evangeline, this woman is indeed, your birth mother. I have a certificate here to prove it. Would you like to see?' Evangeline blinked again.

'My parents died on the day I was born. My grandparents raised me.' Elizabeth Gray leaned forward, her hands twisting in her lap.

'She's never met her grandparents,' she whispered shakily. 'Erik's parents live in Sweden, and my parents passed away before she was even born. She's never met them. Any of them.' Doctor Hume nodded, solemnly. She turned back to Evangeline.

'Did you hear that, Evangeline? You've never been introduced to your grandparents.'

'Not here. They're at home.'

'In Alaska?' Evangeline frowned slightly.

'In The Meadows.'

Doctor Hume retrieved a sheet from the desk and leaned back in her chair. Elizabeth Gray looked as though she was about to be sick.

'Ah yes, The Meadows is the place where you live; that other place, away from here.' Evangeline nodded slowly. 'Doctor Lucifer has told me all about it. Would _you _like to tell me about it?' Several minutes passed.

'Yes,' she said, finally. Doctor Hume folded her arms on the desk and breathed in sharply.

'Go ahead.'

Evangeline looked out the window again. She was thinking. This woman was strange. She asked strange questions. She certainly wasn't like the other therapists; not at all. She was confused. She didn't understand why this woman wanted to know about her home. No one ever asked about her home.

'The Meadows is my village. It's the smallest one in the East Raine. I've lived there all my life.' Doctor Hume was writing something down.

'What is the name of the country you live in?'

'Our land is Moira.'

'Moira? I've never heard of it.'

'You haven't heard of it because you don't live there. You're not real.'

Elizabeth Gray put her face in her hands. This was the most that Evangeline had spoken in years, but the words that were coming out of her mouth were not what she wanted to hear. This must be what Doctor Lucifer was talking about. Her mental health was deteriorating.

'Is this really helping?' She blurted out, suddenly. Doctor Hume shot her a glance.

'It helps for her to talk this through, to make me understand what she is thinking and feeling. That way, it will be easier for her to decipher what makes this world that she has imagined, fundamentally, imaginary.' Evangeline closed her eyes. She hated this dream. She wanted to wake up.

'Why do you think my home is not real?' She spoke quietly. Doctor Hume clenched her jaw.

'Because this is real,' she spread her hands to gesture the room.

'But how do you know that?'

'Evangeline,' she leant forward and smiled almost mockingly. 'I am real. I am sitting here speaking to you. I'm thinking. It's logical.' Evangeline shook her head and looked deeply at the terrifying woman.

'This is all a dream.'

'It's not a dream, Evangeline.'

'Why?'

'Because of what I just explained to you. I am real.' Evangeline looked distant.

'But surely you have dreams where you believe that you are real. Where you speak, and think; just like this.' Doctor Hume opened her mouth.

'Yes.'

'I have dreams just like that too. This is one of those. It's a very bad dream and I'd like to wake up soon.'

'Evangeline, do you want to get better?'

'Who is to say that your definition of what is real is any truer than mine?'

'I'm a doctor, Evangeline. You're very sick. That's why I'm here.'

'How do you know that I'm the one who's sick? All of you could be delusional.'

Doctor Hume turned to Doctor Lucifer, who murmured something to her that was barely audible. Elizabeth Gray looked frantic.

'Evangeline,' Doctor Hume's nostrils flared. 'I would like you to tell me everything about your "home", so I can help you. I need you to help me show you the way back. You can get better, but you have to try.' Evangeline closed her eyes again.

'Darling, please listen to the doctors.' Mrs Gray sounded close to tears. She reached out to take her daughter's hand. She pulled away and began breathing rapidly.

'She doesn't like to be touched,' Doctor Hume said, as more of a statement.

'She never usually responds!'

'It's because I've engaged her. She's more aware. Please do not touch her without my permission in future, it's very disruptive.' Evangeline's breathing became quicker and quicker.

'Evangeline?' Doctor Lucifer stepped forward. She wrung her hands together in distress. She had to wake up.

'Evangeline?' Her mother quavered. She squeezed her eyes tightly together. She had to wake up.

'Evangeline.' Doctor Hume barked and snapped her fingers. She held her breath. She had to wake up. She had to wake up. She had to wake up. Now.


End file.
